


A Study In Oils

by MizJoely



Series: Sherlolly AU Prompts [31]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Artist & Model AU, F/M, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-21
Updated: 2016-06-21
Packaged: 2018-07-16 11:06:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7265518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizJoely/pseuds/MizJoely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>benedicted-cumberbatched had some prompts she needed people to help her out with. This one is for #7: a model and their painter - sherlolly (req. by fairlyfunctioning on tumblr) </p>
            </blockquote>





	A Study In Oils

**Author's Note:**

  * For [benedictedcumberbatched](https://archiveofourown.org/users/benedictedcumberbatched/gifts).



>  I gave Sherlock's father the title of Earl of Sussex just because I wanted to call him that. Alas, it has nothing to do with anything remotely resembling real British peerage circa 1910. Cause I'm a lazy researcher.

“Please, Sir William, if you don’t stand still the only thing I’ll be able to place on your portrait is an abstract swirl of colours!” 

The youngest son of the Earl of Sussex cocked an eyebrow at the young woman his family had employed to paint portraits of himself and his elder brother, Mycroft. “And yet,” he mused, “such a portrait would certainly provoke a certain amount of...”

“Disapprobation,” Miss Molly Hooper promptly replied, although he could see the slightest hint of a dimple at the corner of her mouth.

“Spirited discussion,” he corrected her, crooking his own mouth in a wry grin. “Not unlike the model himself.” He gave a slight, self-mocking bow before straightening up with an exaggerated moue of pain. He placed a hand to the small of his back and stretched, noticing with quiet self-satisfaction how the portrait artist’s eyes tracked the arch of his back with something very different to professional appreciation.

“Although that may be your goal, I have been engaged by your parents to provide an oil painting that they can hang in the family gallery,” she reminded him. A mild rebuke, but certainly the most he’d managed to goad out of her during a month of sittings and sketching, studies of his hands and face...endless puttering in his opinion, at least at first. Beneath her quiet demeanor he sensed quite a passionate soul - no, not sensed, he chastised himself as he folded his hands in front of him and raised his chin as instructed by the woman in question. He didn’t  _sense_ things about people, he  _deduced_ things about them.

And what he’d deduced about Miss Molly Hooper had been rather fascinating, much to his surprise. Yes, he’d learned the usual, boring things about her - only child, father deceased, mother remarried and living on the Continent, one bad-tempered cat currently being watched by a friend in London - but he’d also discovered her carefully hidden - and rather attractively morbid - sense of humour, her fascination with human anatomy and physiology (including the inner workings which most artists were not required to learn), her rather engaging habit of chewing on her lower lip when she was concentrating...in short, as his friend John Watson had (he thought) jestingly declared, it seemed he’d fallen rather distractingly in love with her.

Annoying, that, but although at first he’d confidently believed that the more he discovered about her the less enamored he’d become, he’d quickly discovered just how wrong he could be. He rarely missed anything, but when he did, it was generally on the spectacular side.

Out of desperation he’d told himself that his parents would never approve a match with a penniless itinerant portraitist far below his class, younger son or not, especially not one two years his senior.

Those arguments, however, were nullified within moments of their formulations: his parents were entirely unpretentious and would approve any match for their sons; they quite liked Miss Hooper, who joined them at every meal and was treated as a guest rather than a (temporary) employee...and she was actually two years younger than himself, twenty-four rather than the near thirty years she claimed. He understood her reasons for doing so: it was often necessary for a person who depended, as she did, on patronage and recommendations for her living, to project an appearance of sober maturity. Were her true age revealed befpre she’d thoroughly established herself, she’d likely find commissions thin on the ground.

Her current employment by his family would be the sort of work to assure her future, should she impress his parents with her skill. The official family portraits of himself and Mycroft (would she take a bribe to paint an additional four stone’ weight on his annoying sibling’s portrait - no, she was regretfully honest in most regards) would undoubtedly grace the walls of the gallery, as he’d already noted her exceptional skill. She’d not only brought a portfolio of her other works and a sheaf of introductions and endorsements from grateful past clients, but had done a series of rough sketches and even a completed head-and-shoulders portrait of his mother in order to prove her skills.

Even Mycroft had had to concede that her work was more than worthy once he’d viewed the small oil painting. Miss Hooper’s work had perfectly captured their mother’s quiet grace and the charming twinkle in her eyes that made one feel as if she knew some joke that left her constantly on the verge of laughter.

And now she was working on his portrait, soon to shift to Mycroft’s, thus limiting the time they would be able to spend together. The thought was particularly unbearable for a man who had once declared that being alone kept him strong. However, the strong and steady friendship of John Watson and the landlady for their shared apartments in London - his preferred place of residence, not the country manor where he was spending the summer - had taught him that the sentiment he’d once spurned had more than proven the fallacy in his previous beliefs.

If friendship and companionship had improved his life so dramatically, what of love?

“What of - what?”

Miss Hooper’s voice interrupted his (he’d thought) internal musings. “Pardon?” he asked, hoping that he hadn’t done what he now suspected he had done.

“You said, ‘what of love’,” Miss Hooper replied, a small blush on her cheeks. In all the time they’d spent together, he’d only been able to cause her to blush out of vexation; it was entrancing to see the warmth infusing her features because of some - dare he hoped? - softer emotion.

“I did,” he replied, relaxing from the stiff pose he’d maintained for - how long? No matter; he brushed aside the question as irrelevant, stepping off the low dais upon which he’d been standing and walking slowly over to the stool she occupied in front of her easel. “Miss Hooper, what are your feelings on love?”

Her brown eyes were very wide as she regarded him, the knuckles of her hands quite white where she clutched her brush. “Um, I don’t...might I inquire as to what...what are you...”

He couldn’t stand it; she was utterly adorable when she stammered like this, and upon impulse he reached out and pulled her to her feet. “Love,” he murmured as she tilted her head back to stare up at him. The pulse was throbbing in her throat, and his own heart was pounding a synchronous rhythm. “Miss Hooper, I have love on my mind - and not, as you would be right to suspect, of a simply temporary nature; I do not wish for an assignation to while away the boredom of the summer. No, I would never waste either of our time on such frivolous pursuits.”

“Then what do you want, Sir William?” she asked, somewhat breathlessly. But the dimple was showing again, and he felt the urge to press his lips to it.

An urge he sternly suppressed, not wanting to undermine his own argument. “Simply put, Miss Hooper, I would like to ask for your hand in marriage.”

She let out a small gasp, then shook herself free of his hold. He allowed her to step back, watching as she rather shakily placed her brush and paints on her newly-vacated stool. “I’m not sure how to respond to that,” she replied slowly, once she’d visibly brought herself under control. “I’m hardly the stuff of romantic fantasies, Sir William...”

“Please,” he broke in with what he hoped was a winning smile, “call me Sherlock.”

She hesitated, then gave a brief nod. “Sherlock,” she said softly, and he felt his heart skip at the sound of his preferred name on her lips. “I suppose you’ve read my...interest...in you. My personal interest,” she added, as if her words required further clarification. He nodded, impatient for her to continue, which she did after yet another hesitation. “And it’s very flattering for you to make such an offer...but have you considered what hardships it might entail?”

“Hardships?” He raised a brow. “Marrying me might not be the easiest of choices, but I can assure you, my family...”

“Oh, I’m not worried about your family,” she assured him, with another of those pretty blushes he was quickly becoming addicted to. “I feel I’ve come to know your family quite well - I’ve always been a very good judge of character - and I’m sure they would welcome me in spite of the difference in our classes. Even your brother,” she added with another return of the dimple.

“Then what hardships concern you - oh!” he interrupted himself as he thought he caught onto her meaning. “You’re worried about my work with the London police, my consulting detective work with Doctor Watson. If you require reassurances...”

She cut him off with a simple shake of her head, the cinnamon-brown braids she wore in a twist at the back of her neck swinging around at the movement. “I would never try to hold you back from doing something you love. The only question is, would you do the same for me?” At his uncomprehending look, she gestured toward the easel and her tools. “Will you expect me to give up my art, my profession? Because,” she rushed on before he could answer, “I can tell you right now, Sir Wil - Sherlock - that will never happen. I have no objections to being a wife and, and a mother if that time comes, but I will under no circumstances allow anyone to tell me I can no longer earn a living by painting.”

Sherlock knew his expression must reflect the horror he felt at such a thought, for Miss Hooper’s face became blank, unreadable, and she bowed her head. “As I thought,” she said quietly. “Very well, Sir William, under those circumstances...”

“You misunderstand me,” he said, the words coming out of him in a veritable flood as he caught her hands in his and gazed down at her. “I was not troubled by the idea of your continuing your work, but rather by the idea that anyone might require you to give it up out of mere societal conventions. Hang societal conventions! I’ve never abided by them and neither should anyone - but especially not the woman I love and wish to make my wife. If you marry me, Molly Hooper, I can promise you, I will support your efforts. Even if we do have a child - and yes, I will admit that the idea has some appeal - and choose to bring him or her with you on extended commissions such as you are conducting for my family, I would never stand in your way. On that, you have my word.”

“And what if I asked that you keep our child safe while I’m away? Would you give up your exciting lifestyle in order to change nappies and warm bottles?”

He waved a hand airily. “On those occasions I’m certain Mrs. Hudson would step in, or Mycroft would hire a nanny until your return if a case required my attention. We’ll work it out, Molly - please say we will?”

The sparkle in her eyes must surely match that of his own as she smiled at him. “Then yes, Sherlock Holmes, I will marry you.” She raised herself onto her toes and pressed a soft kiss to his lips. 

The kiss they shared a month later at their wedding was just as tender, just as full of promise as they life they vowed to make for one another.

And so it inevitably was.

 


End file.
